


Luxuries & Loss

by MissGuenever



Series: Luxury and Loss [1]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Between Episodes, Comfort Food, Country House, Eliot Spencer's Cooking, Friends as Family, Friendship, Gen, Getting away from it all, Grief/Mourning, Military Background, Morning Routines, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quiet, Saving the World, Travels, inner peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2020-10-04 00:49:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20462300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissGuenever/pseuds/MissGuenever
Summary: The luxury of sitting down with the thick Sunday paper and reading about old friends, lost. The simple joy of early mornings, peaceful places, saving something, and dinner with old friends. Food, lots of food.  It's all about the food!  It's a series of short fics revolving around Eliot which aren't chronological; but, starts with Boston and ends with the move to Portland.





	1. Luxuries and Loss

It was a simple luxury as far as luxuries went. A small house in the country. A house with enough land for a garden, and walking in the woods. There was enough space for horses; although with the amount of time and effort they took Eliot couldn’t justify having any – yet. The key word being yet. Someday there would be horses in the two-hundred year old barn.

If the others knew about this place none of them had said anything. They gave him this, a place where he could be alone. And all too often it was a place where he could be alone, and heal. Since he’d purchased the house it had become a ritual for him on the days when he managed to escape the team and Boston. A cup of coffee and reading the newspaper, then he’d make breakfast, weed the large garden, and putter around fixing this, mending that. It was an old house. Almost three hundred years old and it took a lot maintenance; but, keeping her together and in good shape was worth it. The house was a she; and she most definitely had a personality as finicky and as high maintenance as Sophie!

Eliot sat down with the paper that had been delivered to the mailbox at the end of the private road. He’d gone for a run and walked back up the long driveway, with the thick Sunday newspaper as his cool-down. Now, sipping an excellent cup of coffee, he skimmed through the magazine insert, the business section, the editorials, and spent some more time on the sports section. Yes! Kentucky was playing Tennessee tonight; that would be a good game. As was the routine he scanned through everything. His eyes and brain skidded to a halt when he saw the words: Master Sergeant Dominic Daniel Labrutta, United States Army.

The death of Master Sergeant Dominic Daniel Labrutta, 38, was officially announced Monday. Labrutta, who was assigned to the 20th Engineer Battalion of the 36th Engineer Brigade, died in Kandahar, officials stated. He is the ninth soldier with county ties to die while serving in the war against terrorism since 2003.  
Adams is the first to die in Afghanistan; the other eight died in Iraq. Of the nine deaths, seven were killed in action and two succumbed to injuries from non-combat circumstances. He was a 1994 graduate of South County High and is survived by his parents; Dominic Giovanni Labrutta and Gina Tosca Labrutta; his sisters Marie Gina Labrutta McLauren, Bianca Leah Labrutta.

Five simple sentences. Five sentences in the back of the newspaper, that was it. Dom’s entire life summed up in five sentences. Five short sentences. Eliot felt tears start to leak out of his eyes and just let them fall. Let them hit the newspaper which had fallen forgotten onto the dining room table. 

Another promise he hadn’t kept. He’d made the promise first to his true love, and then to Uncle Sam. He and Dom had always had each other’s backs. Promised each other they’d be there. Eliot continued to let the tears fall. One more dead soldier Dead. Another name that would be forgotten too soon. A life snuffed out too soon and all that bullshit. The good ones always die too young. 

He shoved the chair back from the table not caring that it hit the wall with too much force denting the lovingly restored wainscoting. It might only be seven thirty in the morning; but, he reached into the kitchen cabinet, grabbed the bottle of Jameson’s from the back and roughly poured a couple of measures into the clear glass. Eliot tossed back the Irish whiskey and felt the burn reach into his nose, instead of slamming the glass down like he and Dom had many times he held it up in a silent salute. A salute to those gone.

As the burn hit his stomach, the hitter stared at the glass he held in the air. Again he felt the tears in his eyes. Today was a day he didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to feel. So he poured a second measure of whiskey and whispered:

Life contracts and death is expected,  
As in a season of autumn.  
The soldier falls.

He does not become a three-days personage,  
Imposing his separation,  
Calling for pomp.

Death is absolute and without memorial,  
As in a season of autumn,  
When the wind stops,

When the wind stops and, over the heavens,  
The clouds go, nevertheless,  
In their direction

It was a poem he’d been forced to read in high school; and Eliot could never remember the author. But, the words ‘absolute and without memorial’ had always stuck with him. Today the wind had stopped.


	2. Breathe in, breathe out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this is very short. But, I’ve always wondered how Eliot manages to appear to be grounded and fairly normal given the profession he’s in. I’ve met a lot of soldiers/sailors and the such over my life as well as a lot of wanna-be’s. And Eliot seems to be very well adjusted for having a violent profession. So this is my take on one of his techniques to remain ‘normal.’

Breathe in… Breathe out; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Breathe in… Breathe out; in through the nose, out through the mouth. Eliot moved gracefully through from position to position letting them flow through his brain with total concentration. This was the one place he could concentrate fully on the flow of the movement, and be safe.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Eliot could feel his muscles stretch and warm with the slow controlled movements. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stretch, contract. Movement. Eliot let the sunrise roll over his shoulders and rise over the farm. He felt his feet in the damp grass, lifted his arms towards the sky and felt the warmth of the rising sun.

Eliot could smell wood smoke in the air. Breathe in. Breathe out. Stretch towards the trees. Center your soul. It was a morning ritual that Eliot had cultivated over the last few years. It was a morning ritual that centered him, kept him sane, it kept him grounded. Stretch, curl, feel the earth, reach for the sun. It was a morning ritual that he’d learned in a country that no longer existed, in a place that technically never existed, and from a man that was probably dead by now.

Breathe in through the nose. Out through the mouth. Smell the wood smoke, the damp trampled grass. To his left Eliot could smell the cows that the Dale’s had next door. The wood smoke was from the oak that he was burning in the stove in the kitchen. 

This was the one place which Eliot felt completely safe. No one knew about the farm; his secret garden if you liked children’s literature. Shirtless Eliot curled his toes into the grass and completed his morning ablutions. He grabbed his shirt and padded back towards the kitchen and the simple breakfast that was waiting for him. A cup of coffee, eggs from the farm down the road, and toast from the loaf of bread he’d made yesterday with jam he’d made last fall. 

A few minutes later Eliot was reading the paper, the Sunday paper. Weekends up here were a wonderful thing. He was going to have to head back into town tomorrow; but, there were a couple of things he needed to do today. Sonny, the caretaker next door needed to put a new back door on his little house. The man was many things; but, a carpenter wasn’t one of them. It shouldn’t take more than a couple hours. And Eliot had been planning on fixing the basement window for a couple of years. It wasn’t truly bad, just not great, which was why it had been at the bottom of the list for too long. 

Stretching the hitter finished his cup of coffee; he was feeling kind of stiff. His body didn’t bounce back as quickly as it did ten years ago. Maybe instead of making Parker cookies this afternoon he’d see if Elambert was available for a massage. Elambert had the most amazing hands; she worked the kinks out Eliot and left him feeling like a wet noodle for the rest of the day. But, when he woke up in the morning the stiffness and achiness would be gone. And best of all she didn’t gossip. So, while Eliot was on her table at the mercy of her hands he didn’t need to worry about her telling anyone anything. Sonny had told him that people were asking questions about him; apparently the fact that he appeared to be both single and straight was making him the target of a lot of questions. Shaking his head at the idiocy of people Eliot reached up to the wall behind him. Yep, this was a plan. Fix the door, and get a massage, then back to the city in the morning.


	3. Arbor una nobilis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot rescues a piece of furniture much as he rescues those around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone so much for reading, reviewing, kudoing (I'm sure that is a word!). Whereinthewrld, and Always-Underrated thank you so much for betaing and dealing with my many neuroses.

“Arbor una nobilis.” One and only noble tree. Eliot thought about those words as he stared at the bookcase in front of him. Elambert his massage therapist had told him about it when he’d gotten a massage the week before. She knew about his sleeping habits, and his reading habits. And she’d seen his home; and thus knew about the stacks of books he had. Stacks and stacks of books. So she’d told him about the bookcase she’d seen at an antique shop she’d gone into with her sister when they’d gone for lunch. She’d told him about how sad it looked sitting in a corner of the clearance room while she’d been working out the muscle knots he’d gotten from Nate’s latest plan. “Man, Nate came up with some risky plans.” The hitter shook his head.

So that left him here, standing in his barn, staring at a rather decrepit bookcase. Eliot sat down and looked at the bookcase; he’d taken out the adjustable shelves and set them to the side. There were dents and dings in it; a couple of paint scuffs, some mold along one edge, and a couple of pieces of molding were coming off. Specifically it was the trim along the top, and the right hand side. And apparently someone, at one time, had decided that the oak bookcase needed to blend into a mint green décor – so there were pieces of it that had God-awful mint green paint splattered on it. Well, looking at the color of the wood Eliot thought it might be made out of oak that had been stained. The grain looked kind of oakish. All in all there really wasn’t too much going for this piece of furniture. 

Eliot looked at the rather sad looking bookcase; it was kind of like him. Taken too many hits over the years; but, kept on going. The hitter looked at the bookcase and saw himself in it. He looked at what it would take to bring this bookcase back to its glory. He needed to remove the loose trim, strip all the layers of paint and varnish off it, sand it, stain it, and then coat it in a protective covering. 

The bookcase stared back at him; Eliot would swear up and down that it did. He took a swallow of the cup of coffee that had been cooling on the support beam. Picking up the slim bladed joint knife; it wasn’t the typical knife that you would get down at Lowe’s or the Home Depot this one had a slight angle to the blade; the hitter attacked. He removed the pieces of loose molding and carefully set them aside on the tarp he’d put down earlier. 

This bookcase might not be made of acacia wood or covered in gold like the Ark of the Covenant. But, it had been crafted by hand and it looked like someone had crafted it with love. This bookshelf deserved some caring and love. After removing the loose trim, Eliot gently took out off the rails which allowed the shelves to move up and down.

Picking up the can of stripper Eliot carefully smoothed it onto the horizontal surfaces of the bookcase. He’d do the vertical surfaces next. The fifteen minute wait for the striper to set gave him time to finish his cup of coffee, and to ponder the latest phone call from Maggie. She’d liked the chutney he’d sent. That had been a very odd call which had thrown him for a loop.

The timer went off and Eliot donned gloves and began carefully removing the stripper with his full concentration on the bookcase. What kind of wood was under the many layers of polyurethane, varnish, and paint? It was tightly grained, and a lighter colored wood. After he removed the rest of the stripper and peeled off the gloved the hitter took a step back and stared at the now naked bookcase.

He grabbed a bottle of water and took a drink looking at the bookshelf. Grabbing a rag and saturating it in denatured alcohol he gently cleaned off the surfaces he’d stripped. Without the residue the damp wood seemed to glow. Chestnut, the bookcase was made out of Chestnut. And unless Eliot missed his guess, this was American Chestnut. It was a wood which was often mistaken for oak; but, was very distinctive once you looked at it closely. He’d have to tell Maggie next time she called; it would be a nice point of discussion. She would appreciate it; after all their discussions had covered everything from Russian icons to fish & chips.

“American Chestnut.” Eliot mumbled to himself as he went to get himself some lunch. That put a whole new spin on the bookcase; it was truly a gem in disguise. Looking at the wood combined with the finish it was probably over a hundred years old. He pulled his hair back from where it had fallen out of the ponytail and tried to decide what style it was. Greek Revival? It did have the symmetry which common to that period; but, no. Empire? Regency? Federal? Colonial? Nothing really fit; it was kind of like him: A mash-up of many styles.

After finishing his sandwich Eliot wrapped the block with a new piece of sandpaper and began sanding the top of the bookcase. He concentrated fully on task at hand, letting all of his senses become one. Back and forth with the grain of the board. “Arbor una nobilis.” The hitter muttered. “One and only noble tree.”

It was from a hymn he’d heard a long time ago; and although this was a much different context it felt appropriate. 

Crux fidelis, inter omnes arbor una nobilis,  
nulla talem silva profert flore, fronde, germine,  
dulce lignum dulce clavo dulce pondus sustinens.

Slowly; but, surely the simple beauty of the wood came out. He changed to a finer grit of sandpaper and continued working letting the warm afternoon sun from the open barn door wash over him as the beauty of the wood and the craftsmanship emerged. One and only noble tree.

Standing up and stretching Eliot looked up and noticed that it was almost dark which would explain why he was stiff. He looked at the bookcase; it was starting to look really good. It needed several more hours of sanding; but, when it was done it would really be a distinctive and very noble piece of furniture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The phone call’s I reference are Sprite91360’s over on Fanfiction.net it is a totally awesome series of fics called (drum roll please): Phone Calls. Read them, love them, and give her the kudos she deserves! 
> 
> And the translations for the Pange Lingua Gloriosi Proelium Certaminis are quite interesting. There are the literal translations; and then the not so literal translations. One of the more common translations was done in the 1930s:   
Faithful cross, thou sign of triumph,  
Now for us the noblest tree,  
None in foliage, none in blossom,  
None in fruit thy peer may be;  
Symbol of the world’s redemption,  
For the weight that hung on thee!
> 
> I personally prefer a more literal translation which keeps the original structure:
> 
> Faithful Cross, above all other, one and only noble Tree!  
None in foliage, none in blossom, none in fruit thy peers may be;  
Sweetest wood and sweetest iron, sweetest weight is hung on thee!


	4. Veteran's Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gaben, Whereintheworld, and Always-Underrated: Thanks so much for the help, encouragement and for putting up with my insecurities!

It was a week that had been bad from the start. The job that they’d been working had been complex and more difficult than it should have been. Parker had a burn on her back and bruises everywhere, and Hardison had two bruised ribs. He’d survive; but, he was going to whine a lot for the next couple of weeks. Nate, as always, had pretty much escaped unscathed; and Sophie sported a bruised cheekbone and much to her dismay had lost a pair of shoes. Eliot swore that New Hampshire heard her complain about losing that pair of very expensive sling-backs. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that sling-backs, even maroon crocodile ones were useless and more than that were a safety hazard. Almost as soon as they’d gotten back into Boston the hitter had slipped away and driven out of the city.

With a little bit of help from Parker he’d relocated his shoulder in the van on the way back to Boston. It hurt like an SOB; but, it wouldn’t cause any permanent damage. He did need to make a dental appointment; the loose tooth was a bit worrisome. Pulling up his long driveway Eliot, grimaced at the jarring the potholes was giving his bruised and battered body more grief. The hitter could feel every blow he’d taken, and was really happy that he’d called ahead and Sonny’s wife would have brought over some groceries. Grocery shopping wasn’t something he really felt like doing looking like the loser in a bar brawl. With what Adele would have dropped off that morning and what he had canned plus what he had in the freezer he’d be good for quite a while.

Eliot walked in the house and carefully reset the alarm. He felt stiff, and old. Very old. Carefully, he grabbed a roll from the bag in the bowl on the counter and ate it standing over the sink with a glass of apple juice and two of the strong pain pills that would let him sleep through the night. The apple juice and the roll would keep his stomach calm; these pills usually gave him quite an upset stomach. The hitter didn’t usually take heavy drugs; or plan to sleep for eight hours; but, on nights like this he knew that it was what his body needed.

The next morning Eliot came to wakefulness slowly; feeling both the after effects of the pain killers and the fight. He felt like he had been beaten with a length of iron pipe after going out for a long night of drinking. But, the iron pipe had been last month; and that had just been a glancing blow. Stretching, Eliot felt his shoulder protest with the movements and the stiffness in his entire body.

Eliot slowly stood up and drank down the bottle of water he’d put on his bedside table. The curtain was open enough that the soft morning light was coming through. He walked over and stared out at the rain that was coming down at a slow steady pace.

Recognizing his body’s needs and the needs of his mind, the hitter sank into movements he hadn’t practiced in too long. The structured movements of small form Tai Chi Chen soothed not only Eliot’s mind, but slowly stretched his body and relaxed his stressed muscles.

Breathing out slowly, Eliot concentrated and moved. He felt his muscles slowly awaking and responding. The small form of Tai Chi was about internal energy and the elasticity of muscle. Looking deep within himself, the hitter found his inner peace and summoned it like a small ball of pulsing energy and sank into the rhythm of the movement. He let the movement become himself, become the light, become the rain. Pushing the ball of energy away from him; and pulling it back into his core Eliot felt the aching weariness retreat a little and his soul lighten. He felt the connection to the ground, peng jing, in Chinese.

Eliot became one with the drops of rain hitting the window and swayed with the sound of them on the tin roof. Slowly his heart beat became one with the rain drops. Eliot’s whole body moved slowly, and continuously. His movements mimicking silk being spun. Motions he’d learned in a country that no longer existed, in a place that technically never existed, and from a man that was probably dead by now.

Finishing the long series of movements Eliot bowed to the window. Thanking the morning for allowing him the time. Thanking the ground for giving him peace. And thanking the master that taught him. 

Pausing for a second before he walked downstairs the hitter remembered something that his teacher had told him:

"In order to understand a move you must practice it 10,000 times. This is called The School of Ten Thousand Repetitions." "The Way is in training."

And he wondered how many times he’d practiced over the years? How many times his body had gone through the movements focusing on his dantien, his core; focusing on his connection to the peng jing, the ground? Taking the movements he’d been shown and making them his own. 

Walking down the stairs feeling the cool fall air on his skin Eliot thought he should probably check out the furnace because it was going to need to be started up soon. He stood in the kitchen and looked out over the grey misty landscape. You could barely see the barn because it was so gloomy with mist settled across the yard. 

Eliot started going through the motions of making a pot of French press coffee. While he was waiting on the water to heat, the hitter turned on the radio to the local news and music station. Their news was always interesting.

“And the radio just keeps on playing all these Songs About Rain...

Now there's all kinds of songs about babies and love that goes right, But for some unknown reason Nobody wants to play them tonight…”

He flipped the radio off, figuring he must have missed the news. Gary Allan’s Songs About Rain was a very fitting tune for the weather; but, not one he really wanted to hear.

Pouring the almost boiling water into the glass cylinder the hitter carefully placed the lid onto the pot and hummed:

"Here Comes That Rainy Day Feeling Again, Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Early Morning Rain They go on and on, and there's no two the same Oh it would be easy to blame all these Songs About Rain”

He stared out the window by the stove and thought to himself that Gary Allan knew how to pick a song that reflected a mood. This was definitely a gloomy song for an overcast day. Eliot looked over at the calendar to remember when he had an appointment with Elambert, his massage therapist and saw that it was Veteran’s Day. Fiercely he pushed the plunger down and poured his cup of coffee. Taking a sip he decided it was a little too strong; that is what he got for being distracted.

“Veteran’s Day.” Eliot thought bitterly. “That one day a year when people actually thought about those that served.” He took a sip of the bitter coffee and started thinking.

The hitter thought about the friends he’d made. The friends he’d lost. Dom. Master Sergeant Dominic Daniel Labrutta. The latest in a list that was way too long. Ricky Dewater, Jeremy Lasher, Jay Hoskins, Tim Poole, Adam Davis, … Staring at the mug of coffee, and wishing it was something stronger, Eliot lifted it in a silent salute. A salute to lost friends, lost relationships, and lost time.

Finishing off the cup of coffee Eliot felt the tension that had returned to his muscles. He ate an apple and drank another cup of coffee. This was going to be a very long day, even though he had no concrete plans. He stood up and carefully pushed his chair into the small metal topped table, and sank into the first of the large form Tai Chi movements. Over the next fifteen minutes the hitter mindfully moved through the twelve movements in the sequence. He gracefully flowed from movement to movement, and position to position, feeling the earth, worshipping the sun, and thanking the sky.

As he finished the series for the third time with ‘Slanted Palms Flying’ Eliot could feel some range of motion back in his battered and bruised muscles. He quickly scrambled three eggs and ate them standing up over the sink. It was easy and made less mess.

Noticing that the rain had let up at least for the moment, Eliot pulled on an old sweater and walked the quarter mile down to his mailbox to get the newspaper. He had an understanding with Sonny; he’d pay for the newspaper and when he was around he’d get it. Any other time Sonny would get it. Even with two sets of stretching the hitter still felt stiff. He grabbed the Globe and checked the mailbox to see if the mailman had showed up yet. Surprisingly he had; not too much came here. Most things came into Boston. There was a letter, hand addressed. The postmark was Montana. Huh, he muttered, as he tucked it into the paper and walked back up the driveway as it started to rain again.

Going back into the old farmhouse, Eliot looked at the coffee pot; another cup sounded really good. No, too much caffeine wasn’t a good thing. Instead, he started his tea kettle heating on the gas stove for a cup of herbal tea and sat down to open the letter from Montana. Inside was a simple card with a black ribbon going around the outside with the United States Army crest in the center. A sick feeling gathered in the pit of his stomach as he opened the card and read:

Services for Sgt. Glenn Davis of Bridger Montana will be held on Tuesday at 2:00 P.M. in the Chapel in Billings, Montana with the Revs. W.J. Shelton officiating. Burial with full Military rites will follow in the Montana Veteran’s Cemetery in Billings, MT. Preceding him in death were his parents and brothers; Glenn is survived by his wife of twenty-eight years Jean L Davis.

A fist clutched at Eliot’s heart. He hadn’t kept in touch too well with Glenn, but knew that the side effects of Agent Orange had really been affecting him over the last couple of years. Jean had been driving him into Billings three times a week for the last year for dialysis, and it had been a fight for them to get the VA to pay for it.

Repeating a ritual he’d done too many times over the years, Eliot got a glass out of the cupboard and splashed a couple fingers of Jameson’s Irish whiskey into it and sank into one of the kitchen chairs with his eyes looking out blindly into the rain. He raised the glass in a silent tribute to a friend, and a mentor. To someone that had pulled him out of a couple of tight spots when he’d been starting out. To a man who had cared enough to make sure that a young retrieval specialist learned the right way to do things. “Glenn, a gentleman and soldier.”

The words might seem clichéd; or have been said too many times. But, they were true, and the hitter felt them deep in his soul even as it ached from one more loss. Eliot sat and sipped and remembered Glenn. The ex-soldier who had transitioned into well… More private work and he’d had been on the cusp of retirement from private work when Eliot had been making his own transition into retrievals. Glenn had always been willing to share his knowledge with the ‘toddlers’ as he’d called Eliot and others like him. Willing to sit down and share a drink, a story; or often a first-aid kit.

Finishing off the whiskey, Eliot grabbed a jacket and headed out into the rain. It was a day for a walk. A day to spend with the ghosts of the past and to remember those that no one else remembered. Veteran’s Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other than Dom; the names are all real Iraq casualties. Just some of the 2,746 casulties that the coalition forces have sustained in Iraq. Too many soldiers, too many parent’s children sacrificed, … Glenn is real; just not an Iraq veteran; he’s a Vietnam Veteran. Lift a glass, a thought, a prayer – more than one a day a year for those who died.
> 
> Again, and as usual; the poem is NOT mine. It’s by a Japanese poet Miyamoto Mushashi. And the song; it’s sung by Gary Allan.


	5. The Art of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the husband is away the wife must write. Thanks so much everyone for reading, and for the kudos. This one is very true, at least for me. I hope it rings true with you. I’ve always wondered about Eliot’s anger; and why he seems so angry. The Experimental Job cleared some of it up for me, brought some stuff into perspective.

> If you know the enemy and know yourself you need not fear the results of a hundred battles. 
> 
> -Sun Tzu

Eliot didn’t think of himself as a particularly violent person. He’d seen the effects of all kinds of violence and preferred to think of himself as a pacifist. A realistic pacifist; he knew that there would always be violence. And he recognized that some people were better able to deal with it than others. He was one of the people that could deal with it. The retrieval specialist knew how to use violence to his own ends, to deflect it for his own gains, and how to deal with the after effects.

He knew how to turn anger into something he could use. And today he could feel the anger bubbling under his skin. He just wanted to hit something, hit someone, preferably someone who would fight back. The job they were working was proving to be more difficult than anticipated; taking longer than anyone of them thought; and he hadn’t been able to get away from the city for too long. He hadn’t had a chance to walk alone in the forest, finish the bookcase he’d started a couple of months ago, change the oil in this truck, or winterize his garden. The close quarters, the spending almost every waking minute with the team, the tedium of this job were wearing on him.

The walls were closing in on him; the nightmares were coming more frequently. Eliot really needed to get out of the city. The nightmares were getting so intense that he was afraid his teammates could hear him through the building walls. And the lack of sleep was catching up to him; he was going to make a mistake soon. A mistake that could cause of them to get hurt. He was supposed to be impervious to harm, suffer none of the effects that most people did in his career field.

Nate said that they wouldn’t him for a couple of days; they were playing a waiting game now. Nate had even quoted Sun Tzu “_He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious._” 

It gave the hitter a chance to escape to the country. “_His country house_” as Sonny, his neighbor and caretaker called it. Making out like he was some type of rich-ass yuppy. Right, … Eliot had seen enough yuppies in his life; and played enough of them in cons. I’m about as far from a yuppy as you can get. Even the thought made him roll his eyes.

The drive up from Boston had been bad. Rush hour traffic had sucked. Boston had some of the worst rush hour traffic in the country, and Eliot felt that every FUCKING idiot in New England had been on the road today. The anger that he usually kept deeply controlled was bubbling up under his skin. The hitter smacked the steering wheel as yet another idiot cut his truck off; if he’d been driving his car they wouldn’t have even tried!

After too long he turned the truck off at the top of his driveway. He felt the sense of peace that he associated with this haven wash over him, and closed his eyes for a second before he got out. 

The frost was just setting on the grass; it was later than he’d thought. He’d have to thank Sonny before he left for starting a fire. It would take the chill of the house; she was an old house. And warming her bones up took quite a while.

Eliot made himself a cup of chamomile tea and settled into the routines of _‘The Country House._” He stretched and put the empty cup into the sink and settled into movements of Tai Chi. Pausing to feel the stillness in his bones he moved from the introduction into the first movement wild horses mane, then into stork cools wings, and brush knee, to lute player, and smoothly into grasp bird’s tail left, diagonal single whip, hands like clouds, right foot, left foot, double dragon, and finishing with slanted palms flying. Slowly he moved through the movements again, and then a third time. Finishing the series by bowing and thanking the moon for allowing him the time. Thanking the ground for giving him peace. And thanking the master that taught him. 

He’d gone through these movements so many times. Part of what calmed him was the total focus that the movements required. Each movement required complete focus; but, no thought. It was a concept that he’d had problems grasping when he’d first learned the movements. Eliot padded into the kitchen and looked at the cup in the sink; should he have another cup of tea? No, he decided; sleep would be better. Sleeping in his own bed. Sleep was good.

Shaking Eliot woke up in a cold sweat. The images that had been seared into his brain years ago were flashing in front of his eyes. Horrible images. Images of things that no man should see. There was a reason he only slept three or four hours a night. Reasons he hadn’t told anyone; reasons that no one should know, or have ever seen. Reasons he would never forget.

Most nights weren’t that bad. But, sometimes something triggered him. Well, at least that was the term the fancy head shrinker had used: Triggered. It was a term he’d come to hate. Especially on nights like this.

On nights like this sleep wasn’t an option. Yoga, tai chi, herbal tea, exercise, the latest biography of Albert Einstein, … None of it would give him dreamless sleep. That doc had given him pills; but, they made him feel sluggish the next day. And if something happened during the night, he wouldn’t wake up. Plus they had weird side-effects. So he didn’t take them and dealt with the side-effects of mild sleep deprivation, irritability. Besides the irritability there was fact that his temper got shorter, and he really wanted to punch someone. Not necessarily a bad thing. Especially in his line of work.

One of the few things that would calm him down was cooking. Comfort food. What he made had changed over the years. Beef brisket, collard greens, baked beans, cassoulet, bolognese, … Tonight he opened the cabinets and decided on lasagna. Sonny and his wife loved his lasagna. It was too early to go to the grocery store and get the ricotta and mozzarella; but, he could make the noodles and the rich tomato sauce that would form two of the three types of layers.

Eliot carefully minced the onion and added it to the foaming butter and olive in his large sauté pan. When it had cooked for a minute or so, he added in a carrot and sweated it. As those were cooking he carefully minced the little bit of pancetta he’d found in the freezer. This wasn’t a fancy sauce; but, the pancetta added a little bit of roundness to sauce. The carrot a little sweetness. He added the pancetta into the frying pan and breathed in the aroma starting to emerge. A couple grinds of fresh pepper. He bought his spices through the mail. Sophie had suggested the supplier. It still shocked him that she would know a good purveyor of spices; but, very few places could beat the freshness and selection that Penzey’s had.

Eliot stirred the pan once; and added a cup of red wine. Again it wasn’t a fancy wine like Sophie would like, this was a robust red wine. A table wine. The aromas were starting to come together. Turning the heat down a little he walked down to the basement to grab three bottles of the tomatoes he’d canned over the summer. There was nothing like homegrown tomatoes in a pomodoro sauce.

Coming back into the kitchen he could see the sun just starting to come up. Sunrise would be official in another hour or so. He gently stirred the wine mixture and added in the first bottle of tomatoes, and a bay leaf. Stirred it again, and added the second and third bottles of tomatoes. Elliot reached into the freezer and grabbed a bag of basil, oregano, and thyme stems; he tied them together and dropped them into the pot. They’d add a nice flavor without adding little specks to the sauce. The sauce would be ready in about four or five hours.

His dream came back to him as measured the semolina flour for the pasta and put it in a pile on the butcher block in the center of the room. Busy, need to stay busy. Concentrate. Carefully, he cracked the eggs into the little well he made in the flour. He could still see them. Hell, he’d probably always see them. Some days he wished he could forget; others he was glad he couldn’t. Instead of closing his eyes he turned on the radio and looked over at his guitar in the corner. Maybe Bob would be up for a jam session tonight; he’d been in some rough places while he’d been in the Army. It was really nice knowing people that understood.

> You got a fast car  
Is it fast enough we can fly away?  
We gotta make a decision  
Leave tonight or live and die this way

Good song. Been covered a lot. He liked this guy singing it. He had a couple other songs playing. There was that upbeat one, the one about the bar. Eliot poured a drizzle of olive oil around the eggs and started gently whisking the eggs bringing the flour into the egg and oil mixture while singing along with the radio.

> I know things will get better  
You’ll find work and I’ll get promoted  
We’ll move out of the shelter  
Buy a big house and live in the suburbs

The dough quickly tightened up and the hitter abandoned the fork in favor of his hands. Kneading the dough made some of the tension leave his body. He concentrated on the dough, and working the flour in. The song changed on the radio. This one wasn’t a favorite of his; but, he still hummed along with it. The texture of the dough began to change becoming smoother under his hands. After a few more turns around the board Eliot carefully wrapped it in plastic wrap and put it aside. 

He stirred the sauce and began to clean up, wiping down the butcher block and very carefully applying a thin layer of mineral oil to it. The mineral oil kept the old wood from drying out and cracking. It was a food grade mineral oil; and didn’t go rancid like olive oil could. He wiped down the stove and looked out the window. The sun wasn’t up much. So he just stared. He was still twitchy, and angry. 

Joe should be down at his dojo about now. He was usually there before the sun came up on weekends, warming up. He taught a couple of morning classes targeted towards adults. Maybe he’d be up for some sparring. There were usually a couple of black belts prepping for a tournament that Eliot could spar with. Yeah, it was a good idea. Eliot walked to the stove and stirred the sauce again; he turned the gas down really low. With the cover on it would be just fine for a few hours.

Thinking about what he needed while he was in town the hitter walked upstairs to get his gym bag. Mozzarella, ricotta, and cream. A couple years ago he’d discovered that topping lasagna with a Béchamel sauce made it even better.

With his bag in hand, Eliot walked back through the kitchen smelling the aromas of the sauce coming together. There was the sweetness of the onion and the carrot, and the tomato blending with the red wine. Should he get some sausage to put in with the red sauce? Fennel seed did have a really nice tang to it; and Sonny and Adele were meat and potatoes people.

Eliot started the truck and tossed his gym bag into the passenger seat. He had a plan for the day. Sparring with Joe, the grocery store, finishing the lasagna, and working on his bookcase. He also needed to replace the manifold in his car. Having a plan for the day made some more of tension leave his body. And he needed to make an appointment with Elambert, his massage therapist for early tomorrow morning. And then he’d go back into Boston. 

The radio announcer was talking as Eliot headed into town. Hockey game tonight. The Bruins were playing. Huh. He’d pick up a six pack of beer. Actually he should pick up two; Sonny would stop over for a drink or two during the game.

__

> __
> 
> _Do you know why I remember these things? You don't know? 'cause I can't forget. So there's nothing you can do, no punishment you can hand out, that's worse than what I live with every day. So to answer your question, no. No I haven't counted. I don't need to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sauce is one that I make myself. It’s very similar to ones made by Biba Caggiano in her classic cookbooks. And the pasta; it’s her recipe. Personally, I like De Cecco – it’s dried. Dried pasta is easy. But, sauce. It has to be homemade!


	6. Times Past

It was another narrow win. But, they’d pulled it off. Saved the world, and all that. Shelley was coming over for dinner. That meant it would be an evening of stories and good times. Maybe a game of cards or two.

Joe had said he’d be over after he taught his last class down at the dojo. What to make for dinner? Fugu, not too long ago he’d had the lesson from Sempai. Nah, Joe didn’t eat fish after that mission in Mal… Umm… Yeah, that was classified. Mexican? Nah, he’d had that last night with Parker and Hardison. Indian? Hmmm… That could work. Eliot smiled to himself the last time he and Shelley had been on a mission… Well, that had been the Khyber Pass. Oh, that had been interesting. They’d hiked from the Khyber Pass to Torkham and managed to get a ride into Lahore in the back of a truck filled with goats.

After that they’d laid low in Lahore near the often contested Pakistan Indian border. They’d stayed with the Agha family; some people that Shelley had helped out a couple of years before. It was a gorgeous house; a single story whitewashed structure. It was pretty much a small and very secure fortress, with a courtyard in the middle filled with all kinds of plants. There was a huge vegetable garden where Eliot had spent the better part of a month until he and Shelley were well enough to head back to the States. This had been a really rough mission, a rescue mission. A rescue mission that had failed because the target had been dead before they’d shown up. And the number of guards and security personnel had been over double what intelligence had predicted. 

Luckily there had been friendlies around. And they had helped them get to Lahore; to Auntie Tari, and her family. And her courtyard garden; the flowers were beautiful; the reds, magentas, and lush greens. All kinds of plants that Eliot had never seen before. They weren’t as brightly colored as tropical flowers that Eliot and Shelley had seen; but, they were beautiful.

Auntie Tari, as she told them to call her, Tari was short for Tahira. Auntie Tari was a wonderful woman, kind and generous. She told them about the history of Pakistan and about her childhood when it had been one country, India. Over meals of harissa she told them about her school years and how everyone used to play together; the Sikhs, Muslims, and Hindis, but after nineteen forty-six sadly everyone had their own little corner of the schoolyard where there were no more shared lunches. 

While Auntie Tari taught him to make harissa; a slow cooked porridge made of pounded meat, and cracked wheat, she told Eliot stories of Mughal emperors. She spoke of the Mughal conquests of the thirteenth century. She told of how the conqueror Akbar not only brought in his own traditions, but how he accommodated the local religions. She told him the stories about Muslim jihad that her ama had told to her during their quiet times in the nursery. 

Over the hours that it took to slow cook the harissa, she explained the difference between a Mughal and a Mongol, the condiment harissa and the porridge harissa. And that depending on where you went it might be called Harees or Haleem. They ate harissa as a starter to the meals that Eliot cooked under the watchful eye of Auntie Tari. She told them stories about her mother teaching her to cook. Well, actually stories about watching the cook make the meals, after all this was an upper-class household!

While they toasted spices to make garam masala, she told him stories about the festivals she’d gone to as a child. As the cloves filled the air she told Eliot and Shelley about Mela Shalamar, the Festival Of Lights. And how when she was a child it used to take place in Lahore, but now was held in Baghbanpura the shrine to Shah Hussain, in the outskirts of Lahore. The suburbs as Shelley called it. She didn’t tell them about the possible problems which hiding two fugitives could cause her husband second husband Bilal. Instead she talked about the food stalls they used to visit during Mela Shalamar. She told them about her life as a child, her first husband Ali, and her second husband Bilal. 

The smell of cinnamon brought about the stories of how Mela Shalamar used to be the biggest of all the festivals in Lahore; but, now that was Basant. And that wasn’t a good thing. The smell of cumin toasting made Auntie Tari tell stories about Ghengis Khan that she had learned in school. The pepper was stories of the conqueror Bebur and the Bāburnāma. After much fumbling in language Eliot and Shelley understood that the Bāburnāma was Bebur’s memoirs. The story of his life from his birth in what is now Uzbekistan. Every spice in garam masala, Eliot now associated with a story: The peppercorns; cloves; malabar leaves; mace; black, and white cumin seeds; black, white, and green cardamom pods; nutmeg; star anise; and coriander seeds. 

Even now, years later when Eliot saw the large black cardamom pods he thought of the time he and Shelley spent in the Agha’s compound. And he when he crushed the pods and breathed in their aroma he remembered Auntie Tari explaining that black cardamom wasn’t actually cardamom; but, it was often used as a substitute when Pakistani’s couldn’t afford the real thing. It had been used for so long and the flavor notes were needed to round out the garam masala. 

Over many small glasses of tea, she told Eliot and Shelley about how you could identify where someone was from by the type of tea they drank. Afghans drank green tea scented with cardamom, Peshawaris would drink either green or black tea, and Hindis liked black tea with cinnamon, cardamom, and cloves. Specifically they liked assam; if you were in the Indian foothills of the Himalayan mountains it was Darjeeling, and in the south of India it was Nilgiri, a strong black tea. There were no business deals made in Lahore without many cups tea being drunk. After tasting all three types of tea under the watchful eye of Auntie Tari, Eliot found he preferred Darjeeling; a delicately flavored tea. He especially liked the slightly biting notes of the second harvest teas; they were quite distinctive. Shelley really couldn’t tell the difference between the Darjeeling teas and liked Assam, it was more like coffee. Auntie Tari sniffed and called him a barbarian. 

It didn’t bother Eliot to be the favorite. Shelley had to ask a couple of times to get her to teach him things; Aunte Tari would always pass Shelley off to one of her many children or grandchildren. But, she was always willing to take time out of her day to teach Eliot, Punjabi and the official language of Pakistan Urdu. Auntie Tari spoke English because that was one of the official languages; but, she was more comfortable in Urdu or Punjabi. Eliot’s basic Arabic was a huge help in learning both Punjabi and Urdu. While Urdu was the official language of Pakistan, most people spoke Punjabi. After that it was Pashto and then Sindhi. Aunti Tari spoke English, French, Arabic, Punjabi, Urdu and Sindhi. She’d had to learn multiple languages as her father had been a diplomat in the pre-war world. By the war she didn’t mean the post-2001 world that most Americans lived in. She meant pre-World War II, and the peaceful land that she’d grown up in. 

In the time that it took Eliot and Shelley to weed her extensive gardens they learned about Basant; the biggest festival in Pakistan. Auntie Tari told them about the feasts she’d held with her first husband Ali, long decesased. The festivals; she’d served the men folk Pepsi cola and green tea until late into night. And how most of the men had small glasses of “Pepsi” which Auntie suspected were actually spiked with whiskey, even though most observant Muslims don’t imbibe in alcohol. She told them about the high flying kites which swooped and dove in combat to the death, and how Basant’s roots lay in Hindu traditions. Yet, no one in Pakistan was willing to acknowledge it.

Over the course of that month Eliot and Shelley spent in Lahore Pakistan; Eliot fell in love. He’d fallen in love with Auntie Tari, and the culture she’d taught them about. Auntie Tari was old enough to be his great-grand mother, but even now standing, in his modern kitchen in Boston, Eliot could think of no one he held in greater esteem than that wise matriarch. The lady that had healed his soul with stories and food. She’d made him boorani bajan, spicy eggplant with yoghurt. She’d made him weed her garden while telling him stories. And then made him bihari bhujia, potatoes with red chilies and crispy onions, to soothe his soul. She’d understood that they both had problems sleeping, and made them cup after cup of mint tea; a strong soporific. She’d understood the cabin fever that both he and Shelley suffered when they couldn’t go out of her walls because of local enforcement she taught them to make naan; a heavenly flat bread. So during the fireworks that were being shot off during the festival of Basant she had them kneading bread dough and told them the stories of her youth. She felt their frustration when their bodies weren’t healing as quickly as they felt they should and had them paint the courtyard walls. Eliot could still feel the ache in his muscles as they’d washed the stucco walls, then primed them, and finally painted them in a rainbow of festive colors. Looking back he realized it was great physical therapy! And as he kneaded the dough for tonight’s dinner he chuckled at the similarities to the exercises he’d had physical therapists prescribe him.

And so Shelley and Joe were coming over for dinner tonight. And in honor of the stories they’d all tell that night, Eliot was making pasanda kebab, spicy lamb kebabs; chicken biryani, baked chicken and rice; and chappli kebab, spiced beef patties. There would be home-made naan to sop up the meat juices. A lot of meat, because as Auntie Tari’s first husband,Ali always said “We are Muslim, and meat is what we eat!” 

Bilal, Tari’s second husband always had a forbidden bottle of whiskey for them to sip on while they’d been recovering in Lahore. The stories he’d told them, while slowly sipping and talking to them around the fireplace in the courtyard had been amazing. A friend had brought Eliot back a bottle of Pakistani whiskey a couple years ago when he’d had a job over there. Eliot didn’t ask how he got it. But, this was a good night to break it out.

It was going to be a good night!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All, the food is authentic. The spices appropriate. I might have erred on some of the details – if so; please tell me! The quote “We are Muslim, and meat is what we eat!” comes from the Sept/Oct 2002 issue of Saveur. One of their better issues. The articles in this particular issue are amazing!


	7. The Wind Beneath My Wings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you goes out to **Sprite91360** over on fanfiction.net who let me borrow some plot. And thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos or comments.

Eliot could feel the sweat running down his back. He could feel the burn in his lungs. He could feel the cool air on his skin. The sun was almost up, he loved mornings like this: Mornings where he had the time for a long run. And running up here at his weekend house meant that he could go trail running.

His lungs were starting to burn and his legs were starting to feel like lead. But, Eliot kept running, taking in deep breaths. Feeling what was left of the night air at the bottom of his lungs and trying to stay light on his feet as they hit the dirt and leaves that were damp from the dew. In the city he ran with Parker three days a week or so. It had been kind of odd at first running with someone; it had been many years since he’d run with anyone. And then it had been his teammates. None of whom had been a petite blonde female!

The first few runs with Parker had been really odd. Eliot had been expecting runs like the jogs he’d had with his girlfriends: Two to three miles at an absurdly slow pace. But, no Parker had kept up with him while he’d run at the ‘girlfriend pace’ and then announced in her characteristically blunt manner that she was warmed up and was going for a real run. That had made the retrieval specialist realize just how much of an athlete the lithe thief was. So now, three days a week the hitter and the thief ran together. Depending on the day, the weather, their mood, and the moon cycle all determined their route: Were they going to do a short series of sprints, a long run, or something completely different. 

They’d fallen into a routine of alternating who chose the route and the type of run they did. Parker used running to compliment her gymnastics, and flexibility, and strength training, rather than just endurance and fitness. Some of the runs the little thief had put them on were pure torture. They were worse than when he’d been on the teams! And that was saying something. Last week she’d decided stairs was a good workout, so they’d run to the Back Bay and then run up and down all sixty floors of the John Hancock building. And then back to McRory’s. 

This morning he was running through the woods near his house. It was a lot slower than running on trails in and around the city; which suited him just fine. The trails he ran out here were animal trails; they weren’t designed and groomed for people. This run was like an old friend that you didn’t see a lot. Eliot didn’t run this route too much; he didn’t want to disturb the deer or to become predictable. But, this was still his favorite run; it went across a field (well the edges of it), over an old stone wall that bordered the north side of the field, through the woods, over a creek and into the State’s lands. Just because it was his favorite run, had some of the most beautiful scenery in all of New England didn’t mean it was an easy run. It was actually one of the harder runs in the area; thanks to a combination of the terrain and trails.

Eliot stuck his arm out to prevent his face getting hit by a branch and kept running. About ten feet in front of him he saw a nice set of deer prints, he didn’t slow down as he went past them. But, he did notice that they were fresh. As he kept up his steady pace on the edge of the woods he thought about how there wasn’t any dew in the print, which meant that it was pretty fresh. So the deer had probably walked across the trail after the sun had set because the dew had settled about seven. Which meant that the deer had probably been walking about eight-thirty, because deer weren’t nocturnal and typically settled down somewhere for the night.

He kept running, feeling the sweat running down his back and the tightness in his lung; but, relished the luxury being able to run without having to look over his shoulder, too much. Eliot happily pushed his muscle fatigue out of his mind and continued down the trail dodging the tree roots, rocks, and branches. This was a completely different style of running than what he and Parker did in Boston! He could smell the damp forest smell where he was crushing the moss, dead leaves and tufts of grass under his feet.

It was mornings like this that made Eliot glad to be alive. Having the time and the ability to run through the New England forests was a true luxury! When he was out here at his country house it gave him time alone, a time where he could think clearly and listen to the birds waking up. In the city most of the time he ran with Parker and that was a whole ‘nother experience. She tended to jabber as she ran: Oohing and ahhing at the sights. Once the hitter had asked her why she ran: She’d stared at him and cocked her head to one side like she was trying to figure out what he wanted to hear. Finally she’d said that it let her do the things she needed to do; and it was like happy juice. 

“Happy juice.” That had made Eliot shake his head until he thought about it for a second. Then it made perfect sense. Strenuous exercise makes a person release endorphins, and those endorphins combined with adrenalin let a runner keep going through the pain. And literally create a high which in some people creates a feeling of euphoria or happiness. He’d read a couple of articles on it. Medical journals were typically dry enough that they worked well as a soporific and reading them in the evening would help the insomniac hitter feel sleepy.

Right now, eight miles into his ten mile trail run, Eliot was feeling the runner’s high! This was living! He could smell the scents of the early morning forest; see the mist rising off the stream to his left, and the spot where the deer had slept on the edge of the alfalfa field to his right. He could feel his lungs burning, and knew he was alive. 

Eliot sprinted to the top of the last big hill; from here he could see the smoke from his chimney. Pumping his fists Rocky style he thought to himself: Yes! This is the life!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, and now to a commercial break (insert shameless plug): So go check out my profile page and read the rest of my awesome fics. I cover a variety of fandoms, and like everyone else I love hearing from you all.  
Thanks to **Escaping The Past** for confirming (to me) that Eliot was in the United States Navy! All I can say to that is Go Navy! Beat Army! Whoot! Whoot!   
And if you have questions watch (or rewatch) The San Lorenzo Job – Eliot is referred to as Commander in it. And Commander, in the United States is only a rank in the United States Navy. Not the Army, the Marines, or the Air Force. Although, he could have been a puddle pirate, as in being a Coast Guard officer; but, he’s Eliot. He’d be a real military person; hence, United States Navy.
> 
> And again: Go Navy! Beat Army!


	8. Leaving Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking with me through eight chapters of New Hampshire fun! I know that I’ve enjoyed it. Gaben, thanks so much for both being my AWESOME beta, and the reviews! Off to Oregon.

It was four-forty in the morning; early for even Eliot to be up and around. But, it was time; he needed to start driving if he was going to make Portland Oregon in a decent amount of time. It was thirty-three hundred miles, and he needed to stop in St Louis, Missouri where he wanted to check in on an old friend from the service.

Eliot took one last look around his now empty house, and sighed angrily to himself. This hadn’t been just a house to him. It had been a home, one of the few true homes he’d had in well… Well, over ten years. He’d bunked in a lot of places: Apartments, hotels, motels, friend’s houses, including their couches; but, this old farmhouse had been a home!

Shelley had come over and helped him pack some of the stuff that he couldn’t leave behind. So his go-bag was in the wheel well of his truck, his knives were under the driver’s seat, there were a few boxes with books, a few mementos, training equipment, and a couple of other things that were carefully packed under tarps in the truck bed. And most importantly right by the tailgate of the truck, for easy access, was a large cooler. The cooler was full of produce from his garden, some fridge pickles he’d put up last week, and his favorite mustard which made any crappy truck-stop sandwich taste better!

Everything had been packed and put into storage using one of the new aliases that Hardison had put together. He’d used one of those storage places, those storage places that dropped off containers, then you packed them, they picked them up and stored them until you called them and told the company where to drop it off.

The hitter grabbed his travel mug; this mug had been to a lot of places since he’d joined the Leverage team. Prior to working with Nate, Sophie, Parker, and Hardison he didn’t really have anything that he trucked around because he liked them. There were some things he’d hauled around the globe or stashed in secure places; but, this was different… He now had pictures, books, and furniture. Furniture! Not something he’d ever expected to have, non-disposable furniture. Up until they’d met in Los Angeles most of his furniture had come from Goodwill, the garbage, sometimes the curb on garbage pick-up day. But, now… Now, he had furniture. The American Chestnut bookcase he’d refinished, the butcher block table he’d found at a salvage yard in Baltimore during a job, a cast iron bed that had come from the neighbor’s, Adele’s mother’s house. His coffee maker was packed; but, by the time he reached town Joan would be at the Café’ and she’d fill his mug and give him a breakfast sandwich to go. 

With one last look at the garden he’d lovingly tended over the last two summers, and the lawn that the kid down the street had mowed. As much as Eliot loved the connection to the earth that this house gave him, he really didn’t feel the need to mow the lawn. It was nice having enough money to hire someone to do that, and the weed-whacking, weeding the flower beds around the house, and even watering and weeding his vegetable garden when the retrieval specialist couldn’t get up here for a couple of days. 

And so, with one last loving look at his home, the retrieval specialist settled his mug into the cup holder, climbed behind the wheel of his truck, and headed off to the coordinates Hardison had sent: Portland, Oregon. 

Eliot hoped he could find something… Someplace that he could feel a connection with the earth, the people, and find peace! He checked his rearview mirror as he turned onto the main road, and swore up and down that he would come back here!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. It means so much to me that you all take time to read, and then take that extra minute to review. Thank you again! I know that I’m going to miss Eliot’s creaky old farmhouse and his neighbors. Gaben, thanks again for everything!

**Author's Note:**

> : I wrote this after rewatching The Studio Job. Eliot’s line about making a promise to a girl and Uncle Sam. It resonates with me -- especially when I drive by Arlington Cemetery see all the stones lined up; too many young people have died.
> 
> The poem is one of Wallace Steven’s “Death of a soldier” and it is true. The wind stops. It was written during WWI.


End file.
